The Deadly Neighbors (The Zoe Hayes Mysteries) (37 page)

M
Y FOOT HAD BEEN
stitched up and bandaged, and I spent the night in the hospital. An IV was wired to my arm, delivering medications that would slow my contractions and dull my mind. After the surgery, Dr. Martin came into my room, scolding me for not calling her about the contractions and coming to the hospital earlier, reminding me—as if it might have slipped my mind—that the baby’s life was at stake.

Nick stood there listening, alarmed. He hadn’t been aware that I’d been having such severe contractions. I was sure that he’d never trust me again. Oh, God. I’d messed up big-time. Who could blame him if he couldn’t forgive me? I’d almost killed our baby. What if he didn’t want to marry me anymore? I needed to talk to him, to explain, to go home. I was desperate to see Molly. But I was drowsy, drugged. My eyes yearned to close and my mind felt hazy, couldn’t process thoughts. Drifting, I heard Dr. Martin talking to Nick, saying I should stay in the hospital for the duration of the pregnancy. They were walking away, or maybe I was falling asleep. As their voices faded I tried to figure out how long she meant, to calculate how long the ‘duration of the pregnancy’ was. I was nearing the end of my fifth month, had another four to go. But that couldn’t be right; nobody could be expected to stay in a hospital that long. Besides, I couldn’t stay, had to go home. I had to take care of Molly. Had to work. Had to—I knew there was more, but too sleepy to think of it, I let myself float into a medicated slumber, assuring myself that Nick would explain to Dr. Martin that I couldn’t possibly stay in the hospital for four whole months. The idea was out of the question.

Drifting, I watched, unnoticed, as my mother sat in the bedroom in a rocking chair, not rocking. Her cheeks glistened with tears. Her arms were loaded with treasure, and my father was there, begging her to give it to him.

“Louise, let go,” he pleaded, trying to take it from her.

He tugged at it, but she held tight, wouldn’t release it. Her eyes glowed wide and furious, resisting.

“Louise—” My father kept trying to take it from her, and she kept clinging to it, tightening her grasp.

“This is no good, Louise. Let go—”

My mother didn’t answer; defiant, she clutched the treasure to her breast. For a while my father stayed beside her, waiting for a chance to grab. Then he was gone and my mother was alone, gliding through the house with full arms and hollow eyes. When she began to float down the basement stairs, I knew as I always did in these dreams, that something awful was about to happen.

“No! Mom, don’t go down there!” I called, but my shouts were futile, without sound.

My mother was already down in the basement, hiding the treasure; I could see her, picking up loose flooring beside the cedar closet, digging a hole. I had to stop her, and I ran to the steps, dreading what was coming next. I swam through air, making no progress, shouting to her as she buried the treasure in the basement, knowing that, once she finished hiding it, it would be too late.

“Mom…Please,” I screamed. “Stop…Mom! Mom…”

“Mom?”

I opened my eyes.

“Mom? Are you okay?”

Molly stood beside me, shaking me, looking worried. “You were yelling in your sleep.”

I blinked, focusing, and overjoyed to see her, reached out for a hug. “Molly. Oh my goodness. Come here.” It had only been a day since I’d seen her, but it felt much longer, and I squeezed her clumsily, encumbered by the IV tube.

“I miss you, Mom. Can you come home now? Please?” Her eyes were large and troubled.

“I hope so.” I still wasn’t completely awake, had only just remembered where I was. I held Molly’s hands and looked around, saw Nick standing in the doorway, talking to Dr. Martin.

“Why are you in the hospital, Mom? Is Oliver going to be born?”

Oliver. She seemed certain of the baby’s name. And, apparently, of the gender. “No, it’s not time for the baby, Molls. I just needed to rest.”

She frowned, obviously doubting me. “But what happened to your foot?” She stared at the massive bandage.

“Oh. I got bit by a dog.”

“You did?” Her mouth dropped. “How? Whose dog was it? And what’s this?” She pointed to the IV tube.

Her questions kept coming. I answered as well as I could, but I couldn’t stop staring at her. My eyes drank her image; I couldn’t get enough. Molly looked stressed, less rosy than usual. Her socks were unmatched and her blond curls, un-brushed and tangled, were bound up in sorry, uneven pigtails. Obviously, Nick had done her hair.

“What’s with your socks?” I changed the subject.

“We couldn’t find the partners. Please come home, Mom.” Her eyes begged and pouted, puppy-like. “Nick’s great. But, honestly? Without you, he doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

I didn’t know what to tell her. I ached to come home, claustrophobic in the hospital. My body itched from feeling closed in. After just one night, I longed for the freedom to open a window or change my clothes at will. I wanted the damned tubes out of my arm and the chance to look at something other than a bedside commode, an overhead television, pale green walls and an insipid still life of orange chrysanthemums. One night had been enough for me. And seeing Molly close to tears made my own eyes fill.

“Come here, Molls.” I helped her up onto the hospital bed beside me, showed her the control buttons. Together, we rode the bed, giggling and cuddling as Molly raised and lowered the back and the foot, separately and together, until Nick and Dr. Martin joined us, and the conference began.

In the end I was allowed to go home on certain conditions. I had to measure my contractions with a contraption that would transmit the results to the hospital four times a day. I had to stay on heavy doses of medication. I was not to drive, had to avoid all exertion and stay in bed for at least the rest of the week. And if the contractions continued, I had to agree to go on bed rest, possibly in the hospital, for the duration of the pregnancy.

I listened to the conditions, nodding and promising, but truthfully, I’d have agreed to anything just to get home.

I
T WAS A WEEK
before I went back to my father’s house. I spent the week healing and trying to reconcile with my fiancé. Fortunately, Nick’s anger with me was outweighed by his concern. He reassured me of his commitment repeatedly and I tried to believe him; somehow, we managed to shove our conflicts aside in the interests of stress reduction and the baby’s health. Still, no matter how much he declared his devotion, I had doubts. Nick worked more hours than he had to, seemed evasive, and I was sure he was hiding something. I suspected that he was sticking it out, staying with me only because of the baby; after it was born, when he didn’t have to coddle me anymore, I thought that he might leave. I tried to dismiss those thoughts, telling myself that Nick wasn’t necessarily hiding anything, that he’d always seemed secretive. That openness didn’t come to him naturally. That it wasn’t too late to save our relationship if I proved my devotion to him and the baby.

So, during the week, I rested. I took my medication and stayed home, mostly in bed. My contractions dissipated; I felt better than I had during the entire pregnancy. Staying home from work, I spent more time with Molly. While I lay in bed, she read to me, did her spelling and arithmetic homework beside me, carried trays of juice and cookies for us to share.

But in the morning exactly seven days after my release from the hospital, I woke up from another dream about my mother, more vivid than the others. Once again, I’d watched her descend weightlessly into the basement to hide a treasure downstairs. More urgently than ever, I felt compelled to go back to the house, to figure out the dream. So, when Susan called about driving Molly and Emily to gymnastics, I asked her to take me for a drive.

“No. Absolutely not.”

“Susan, I’ve got to get out of the house. I’m going crazy.”

“I’ll bring you a DVD and some bonbons. How about When Harry Met Sally?”

“Come on, Susan. I can’t stay here.”

“You’re supposed to stay in bed—”

“I did. For seven whole days. Now I feel fine. Really. As long as I don’t exert myself, I can go out.”

“Yeah? What about your foot?”

My foot was still a problem, healing slowly, throbbing whenever I stood on it. “So I won’t walk far. Just from the house to your car. I’ll use a cane.”

“What does Nick say?”

I was exasperated. “Do I need a note?”

She was silent for a minute. “Okay. We’ll go for a drive. But you are to do nothing—I mean nothing.”

And so, after we dropped off the girls, we started out on our drive.

“Where to? Anyplace special?”

I didn’t dare tell her where I wanted to go; I knew she’d refuse to take me. “How about Kelly Drive? We can see if the leaves are turning.”

She liked that idea, so we followed Kelly Drive, admiring fall foliage, watching people jog, row, skate or ride bikes along the Schuylkill River. I was quiet, replaying my dream; Susan chatted most of the time, commenting on the press coverage of the dogfights and the tumult in the ADA’s office, in the same breath updating me on Tim’s business travels, her new living room upholstery, Lisa’s grades, Julie’s cheerleading exploits, Emily’s growth spurt, her desire to leave her criminal law practice and open an antiques store or a bakery. We moved from Kelly Drive onto Lincoln Drive while Susan continued her stream of consciousness to which I gradually stopped paying attention. Instead, I directed her to turn into my father’s neighborhood, and then onto his street.

“Why?” Susan eyed me suspiciously.

“As long as we’re so close, we might as well drive by.”

Susan drove on, silent now, obviously disturbed. “You’re not going in.”

“Susan, I’m fine, really.”

“Zoe, I swear, I’ll turn around right now—”

“Okay, I won’t go in. Just let’s drive by the house.”

“Why?”

Why? “I should make sure it’s locked up. After all, there were a lot of people here when I left. I don’t know why. I just want to see it.”

That part was true. I didn’t know why But the house had been drawing me back, whether in dreams or wakefulness. It had been on my mind constantly for weeks. Susan was displeased, and she drove in petulant silence until we arrived at my father’s curb, where she stopped and put the car in park.

“Okay. You’re here. Satisfied? Because we’re leaving when I count to three. One…two…”

But I didn’t hear her say “three”; I was out the door, limping up the path, leaning on a cane.

“Zoe—” Susan was screaming my name, furious. The car door slammed and she caught up to me, grabbing my arm. “What the hell are you doing? You promised—”

“It doesn’t count. I was under duress. You insisted.” I removed her hand from my arm.

“Your doctor said—”

“I know what the doctor said. And, excuse me, but you don’t. You weren’t there. I’m actually allowed to move around a little.”

She sputtered, furious. I continued my hobble, keeping the weight off my left foot, awkwardly making my way up the front steps.

“I’m calling Nick.”

I stopped on the porch and watched her dig in her purse for her cell phone. What the hell was this? Was I a prisoner? Was she my guard? Was Nick?

“Susan, I’m not on house arrest. My contractions are under control. And Nick’s not my keeper.”

“Well, he should be. Somebody should be. I don’t know if it’s hormones or what, but you’re not yourself. You’re not rational.”

“Because I want to go into my father’s house?”

She gaped at me as if I’d said, “Because I want to chop my head off and use it as a punch bowl?”

“Why are you acting like this, Zoe?”

Pulling the key from my pocket, I unlocked the front door. Susan stood at the threshold.

“I can’t be part of this.” She held the cell phone in her hand, but she didn’t make the call.

“Part of what? What the hell is the matter with you, Susan? Ever since I’ve been pregnant, you’ve changed—”

“Oh, really? I’ve changed?”

“Yes, you’ve changed. And so has Nick. Both of you have become controlling and overbearing, and neither of you can mind your own damned business—”

“It doesn’t occur to you that maybe it’s you who’s changed? Maybe your behavior has caused some concern among people who care about you—”

“Stop putting it on me, Susan. I’m pregnant, not psychotic. I don’t need you to tell me what I can or can’t do.”

“Oh, so you’re saying that you think you’ve been making good decisions lately? Chasing murdering dogfighters? Getting yourself and your bodyguard eaten alive?”

“You’re missing the point.”

“Am I? What point would that be?” Her nostrils were flaring.

“The point is that it’s not your place to judge my decisions or my behavior. Good or bad, right or wrong, my life is my business. Not Nick’s. Not yours. Mine. Stop bossing me around—”

“Fine. I get it. I won’t boss you around. Now, get in the car.”

“Back the hell off, Susan.”

Our eyes met. For a moment, time froze. Nobody breathed. Susan blinked first. She looked away.

“Okay. Fine. If that’s how you want it.” She turned around and stomped down the steps. “I’m outta here. You want a ride home? I’ll be out here for exactly three minutes. After that, you can call a damned cab.”

I didn’t worry. I knew she’d wait. I opened the door and stepped inside, trembling for reasons I couldn’t identify, following an impulse I didn’t understand.

I
NSIDE THE HOUSE, MY
damaged heel began to pulse with pain; I’d been standing up too long, and gravity was pooling the blood in my foot. But I couldn’t stop myself, couldn’t wait anymore. I was drawn to the house, had to figure out my dream. I limped through the foyer, the dining room, the kitchen, stopping at the door to the basement as if I’d suddenly woken up. What the hell was I doing? Why was I so compelled to follow the path of a recurring dream? What was wrong with me? Susan was right; I was irrational. I should be home, resting, drinking a milk shake, not acting out a scene from a nightmare by climbing down cellar steps and digging up the floor. And certainly, given my history, I shouldn’t be digging it up alone.